


Stocking

by yeaka



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:43:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5545646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George has a good Christmas morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stocking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarahcakes613](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahcakes613/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for bookhoor’s “a short story where George has the happiest smuttiest Christmas possible” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Murdoch Mysteries or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He wakes up less cold than when he went to bed, except at the end of his fingers. He’s still half in a dream, heavy and sore—his arms aren’t in the right place. When he tries to shift them back beneath the blankets where they belong, he gets a sharp sting in his wrists and nothing more. 

Grunting in irritation, George pulls again, to no avail, then blinks his eyes open against the morning light and tilts his head back. His wrists are tied in several loops of ribbon to the wooden headboard. He definitely didn’t fall asleep that way. It makes him wonder if he’s still dreaming, but he’s too uncomfortable for that and twists around, tugging at them harder—they don’t look that strong, and he’s used to physical labour; he can probably break them with enough effort. 

Before he can, he’s told, “Stop squirming—you’ll give yourself a paper cut.” 

George’s head snaps around the other way, wide-eyed as Henry strolls right into the room carrying a tray of milk and cookies. Down to socks, pants, and a half-un-buttoned white shirt, he gives George a dazzling smile. He comes to place the tray on George’s nightstand like nothing at all is out of the ordinary, and it leaves George to splutter, “Henry? What? But you’re supposed to be off with some girl—”

“Hah, fooled you!” Henry laughs, like this was some marvelous scheme he did masterfully. All it did was make George jealous and depressed, so Henry’s only reward is George’s scowl. Henry doesn’t look particularly perturbed by it and adds smoothly, “C’mon, you know I’d rather spend the holidays with you.” 

George still glares. A part of him wants to absolutely _beam_ —he wanted, more than anything, to not be _alone_ on Christmas, but he also didn’t want to be tied to the bed, and he knows from experience that letting things go to Henry’s head is a dangerous venture. Henry ignores the glower and grabs at George’s blankets, pulling them back down George’s body. It leaves him a little cold but entirely worth it—Henry puts one knee on the bed and hikes himself up, swinging his leg over to straddle George’s middle. 

He sits down, heavy on George’s stomach, and puts his hands flat on George’s chest. They rub small circles in that have George’s lashing fluttering. Henry eyes George from top to bottom and massages him through his shirt, cooing, “Nice of you to get me a present, by the way.”

Confused but growing lightheaded from Henry’s warmth and touch, George mutters, “I didn’t get you a present.”

Henry just rolls his eyes and answers, “It’s _you_ , George. That’s why I wrapped you.”

Now George understands. It’d be clever, maybe cute, if it’d happened the other way around; he wouldn’t mind tying Henry up. He wouldn’t mind doing a host of cheesy, holiday things to Henry. It seems a shame, in retrospect, that he didn’t know beforehand and couldn’t daydream for it—he could’ve come up with a wealth of fun ideas. It’s too late, and he’s already breathing hard, trying to shift his hips to hit Henry’s at just the right angle, and he mumbles thickly, “You can unwrap me now.”

Henry’s grin is absolutely feral. But his hands don’t go to George’s wrists, just skim up his sides, then cup his face. Henry leans down and tilts his head, brushing his lips over George’s for a quick, firm kiss, then another, the third heated and full of tongue. George licks at Henry’s mouth, feeling like his own breath’s stale, and he’s thirsty, and Henry tastes _delicious_ , sort of like milk and rum. The more George kisses Henry, the more Henry kisses him back, and then Henry’s hips stab down suddenly, rolling into another. He starts grinding George hard into the bed, George eager to return it, until Henry forces them apart and mutters, “Hungry, George?”

George nods, meaning he’s hungry for _Henry_. But Henry just nips at his mouth and turns away, reaching for the nightstand. He takes the glass of milk and brings it to George’s lips, tilting it up slowly. George opens to swallow, but it comes a little too fast and he winds up spluttering, splashing some out the corner of his mouth. Henry laughs like it’s funny and puts the glass away. He licks up the mess, coating George’s chin in saliva while George chokes and coughs, then regains himself enough for another kiss. He wants to grab the glass properly. He wants to grab _Henry_ properly. But Henry keeps him bound through another drink, then brings a cookie down. This is easier for George to bite into. It still gets crumbs all over him, but Henry seems happy to lick those away. They work into a slow rhythm of George taking small bites and Henry laving over his mouth. When the cookie’s gone, George opens up for another, but Henry only feeds him tongue. 

The kisses are sweeter now, morning breath gone, and George is already hard, made more so each time Henry bucks into him. They get lost in a slew of kisses until Henry manages to mumble around them, “I wanted to wrap your cock too, but I didn’t want to wake you up; you’re so cute when you sleep...”

“Henry,” George growls, seething and ravenous, “ _Unwrap me_ already.”

He half expects Henry to keep up the torture, but instead, Henry nods. His hands leave George’s face, though his mouth doesn’t, and he claws at George’s thighs, spreading them apart and holding them down so that he can settle between them. When he draws George’s pajama pants down, George is struck again by the cold on his bare rear and the quick shock of Henry’s warm hands afterwards. Henry runs along his ass and squeezes, digging in, then pulls back to fiddle in his own pants’ pocket. George already knows what’s there—Henry carries around a little vial of oil whenever they’re off duty, because he’s a lecherous animal that can’t seem to keep himself in check. For once, George is grateful. This makes for a perfect Christmas morning, even if he does wish they had _real_ presents to unwrap after. 

Henry might be enough. He coats his fingers and presses them between George’s cheeks, rubbing along George’s crack to find his puckered hole, and George gasps the minute Henry finds it. His arms strain against his bonds, wanting to wrap around Henry’s shoulders. Henry chuckles, “So cute, George,” and kisses him again. 

The first push inside always makes George grunt and squirm, but he’s used to Henry’s finger and writhes on it, adjusting, while Henry pistons gently in and out. He’s overzealous but never hurts George, and George always returns the favour. Henry kisses George the whole time, and while George struggles to keep his head on straight, Henry purrs against his lips, “You didn’t really think I’d let you spend Christmas alone, did you?”

George hoped not. He was so _bitter_ when he thought Henry would be off with some girl neither of them would remember in a week. He couldn’t say anything. They’re two men; they’re not _like that_. Henry can’t be his. He should’ve known Henry still would be. He shudders around a second finger and gasps, “How long are you staying?” It comes out exactly as desperate as he is.

“Unless the inspector calls us in, all day and all night,” Henry promises, littering George’s face in little butterfly kisses. “We can do all the things you want to; I just want _you_.”

“Carols?” George asks, arching up and moaning—Henry’s crooked a finger right into that spot that always makes George’s toes curl. Henry rubs it some more and adds a third finger, stretching him wide. 

Henry wrinkles his nose but says, “Yeah, we’ll do that.”

“Baking?”

“Sure.”

“We should get a tree...”

“A bit late for that,” Henry chuckles, nuzzling into the side of George’s face to nip at his ear. “Can’t we just sneak into the stationhouse so I can fuck you under that one?”

George would laugh but groans instead. He clenches around Henry’s fingers, tossing himself up again to drag his hard cock against Henry’s stomach, and Henry pets him and hisses, “Fine, we’ll get you a tree. We’ll go into the woods and I’ll fuck you against the perfect one, and then we’ll drag it back and I’ll tie you up again with the dressings. I’ll stick a candy cane in you and lick cream off your chest, make you any dinner you want, if you’ll sit in my lap while we eat it, and then I’ll take you nice and slow by the fire...” 

George is in a dizzying heaven. He moans, “ _Henry_ ,” weak and wanton. 

Henry pushes down his pants enough to pull himself out, and he drags the head of his stiff cock down George’s rear. Then he returns over George, hands lifting to George’s wrists.

The second the ribbon’s loose, George jerks free, tossing his arms around Henry’s shoulders and pulling him close. Henry murmurs into his mouth, “Merry Christmas, George,” and slams inside.


End file.
